


Brotherhood

by LeMousquetaireFemme (missdarcy)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Acceptance, Brothers, Friendship, Gen, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missdarcy/pseuds/LeMousquetaireFemme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for 1x02 - Sleight of Hand. </p><p>'He found himself feeling rather protective of his new comrade, and at this moment, proud. D’Artagnan had well and truly proved that he had what it took to be a Musketeer. A glance towards the boy out of the corner of his eye, however, revealed that he had started to sway rather precariously...'</p><p>In which D'Artagnan tries to prove himself a Musketeer and is well and truly accepted into the fold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brotherhood

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing even remotely related to BBC's Musketeers.

‘I should have strangled you at the Chatelet, saved myself a lot of trouble…’ Vadim muttered as he keeled over onto the muddy banks of the Seine.

‘Why didn’t you?’ asked D’Artagnan.  Athos frowned at the question.

‘For the fun of it. It was a good trick. It should have worked…’

Black spots were dancing in D’Artagnan’s vision, and he could not, at this moment, fathom how they got there. Was it anger, that this madman had been rampaging around Paris, had nearly blown him up for a trick? Or was it that now Vadim was dead, the adrenaline that D’Artagnan had been running on for the best part of a week now had finally decided to drain from his system?

Whichever it was, it did not much matter at this instant. D’Artagnan was much more concerned with staying upright.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos were still stood somewhere to his right, no doubt discussing what they were to do next and how to get him back into the city considering that no one yet knew that he was not a wanted man as they had led everyone to believe. Their words escaped him entirely, though, a mere buzzing somewhere in the back of his brain.

It was Athos who first noticed that something was wrong. He had not formed the same instant connection with D’Artagnan that his brothers had, and to his slight shame, it had taken his fear that Vadim had killed the young Gascon for him to make the link that the reason this plan had unsettled him so greatly was not because D’Artagnan was so raw, but because D’Artagnan reminded him so strongly of his younger brother, Thomas.

He found himself feeling rather protective of his new comrade, and at this moment, proud. D’Artagnan had well and truly proved that he had what it took to be a Musketeer. A glance towards the boy out of the corner of his eye, however, revealed that he had started to sway rather precariously.

‘D’Artagnan? Are you alright?’ he called concernedly.

D’Artagnan looked over his shoulder and gave a rather feeble, ‘I’m fine’, to which Porthos snorted, for at that moment his knees buckled. Aramis leapt forward to catch their friend before he pitched over to land face first in the mud.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Athos asked, worry colouring his usually unflappable demeanour. ‘He seemed fine when we caught up with him in the tunnels’.

Aramis, resident physician of the group, was checking their friend over for injuries.

‘Hmm… bump to the head, he could have a concussion, we’ll need to wake him up… possibly a broken rib or two, blast injuries perhaps? Bruises to the neck…’ he glanced up at his brothers and remarked dryly, ‘perhaps Vadim wasn’t being sarcastic when he said he should have strangled D’Artagnan back at the Chatelet.’

Porthos and Athos exchanged a look but did not have time to comment, because at that moment Aramis exclaimed in horror.

‘Lord above, what in heaven’s name have they done to his wrists?’

Porthos was the closest, and leaned over to see what Aramis had noticed, before turning back to Athos, aghast.

‘What’s _wrong_ with his wrists?’ asked Athos, not sure he really wanted to know the answer. A rather familiar feeling of self-loathing had begun creeping up on him ever since Aramis had begun to catalogue the young Gascon’s injuries. _You view him as a brother; you bring pain upon him, as you did your brother…_ he thought.

‘They’re utterly shredded,’ replied Aramis distractedly, ‘he’s obviously been tied up somewhere, and I don’t know – pulled himself free?’

‘Looks like it,’ agreed Porthos, in some confusion.

‘We’ll need to get him back into the city,’ said Aramis, ‘I can’t stitch this, the skin has been rubbed away too much. We’ll need to get some decent bandages on these wounds if they’re to be healed properly. Athos, have you got anything we can wake him up with? Until we can be sure he isn’t concussed?’

‘Hmm?’ said Athos, ‘oh – wait – hang on.’ He fished out a small bundle of smelling salts from his doublet and wafted them under D’Artagnan’s nose. He came to with a moan.

‘Mmmfff… head hurts…’

‘We know,’ said Aramis, voice soothing, ‘but we need you to stay awake, D’Artagnan, do you understand?’

‘Mmm…’ he was not coherent in his response.

Athos could not look at the scene any longer, D’Artagnan’s face replaced with Thomas’ in his mind, so he offered to go ahead and alert Treville that the threat was over and that they would be bringing D’Artagnan back to his lodgings with Madame Bonacieux.

* * *

Just over two hours later, D’Artagnan was safely in his bed, lying flat so as not to agitate his cracked ribs, and with Aramis carefully applying bandages to the destroyed skin on his wrists. D’Artagnan was dozing, and as long as there was someone with him to make sure that he was just dozing and not slipping into unconsciousness, they were content to let it stay that way for now.

Athos was sat solemnly in one corner of the room; Porthos was stood by the window and Constance Bonacieux was loitering worriedly in the doorway, clearly at a loss for nothing to do.

‘Madame, why do you not light a fire? We ought not to let the room grow cold whilst D’Artagnan is recuperating.’ Porthos took pity on her.

Unfortunately, this turned out to be rather a bad suggestion, for just as she was getting the fire to take, D’Artagnan smelt the smoke, and in his mind, was immediately back in the tunnels under the Louvre, coughing and spluttering as he tried to put the fuses out. He flew into a panic, surprising Aramis who knocked his bandages to the floor and accidentally punching Porthos, who had approached to help, hard in the face.

‘Got to get out, got to get out, put them out, put them out, put them out…’ he was muttering over and over again, making a weird thrashing movement with his legs. 

‘D’Artagnan!’ cried Athos, ushering Constance out of the room, ‘D’Artagnan, calm down!’

But he continued to thrash.

‘What should we do?’ asked Porthos, ruefully rubbing at his nose, where D’Artagnan’s fist had connected. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s having a flashback,’ said Aramis, ‘I had them often after Savoy.’

Athos glanced at him, but Aramis was looking thoughtful, rather than distressed. ‘We need to get through to him that he is no longer wherever he thinks he is.’

He and Porthos were surprised when Athos, making a snap decision, took a seat on the bed beside D’Artagnan, artfully dodging his flailing limbs, and took him in a tight embrace, preventing him from lashing out any further, and saying his name in a firm tone.

‘D’Artagnan, stop! You are at the Bonacieux, D’Artagnan, you are safe, you are safe, you are here with us.’

He had remembered, looking down at the man on the bed, that Thomas had used to react similarly when he had had nightmares, and that only the gentle touch of his mother and a stream of reassuring words had ever served to calm him down enough to go back to sleep.

Luckily, it apparently did not only work on seven years olds who were afraid of the dark, but adult men in the throes of a flashback, for after a minute or two, D’Artagnan stilled and looked around, recognising his surroundings and the men who were stood at the foot of the bed.

‘Sorry,’ he said sheepishly after a minute, taking in the bruise that was beginning to blossom on Porthos’ face.

‘Don’t mention it,’ Porthos said in reply, mouth twisting in wry amusement. ‘I’ll just add it to my blackmail bank, shall I?’

D’Artagnan offered him a small smile, and then noticing that Athos had not yet loosened his hold, shrugged himself free, wincing as his ribs protested against the movement.

‘Careful!’ said Aramis, stepping forward, and resuming his work on D’Artagnan’s wrists, ‘there’s nothing I can really do about your ribs but you can listen to me when I tell you that you are to rest!’

D’Artagnan looked sheepish. Athos, who had now left his seat on the bed and was stood next to Porthos, was looking at him with narrowed eyes.

‘What brought that on, D’Artagnan?’

‘What brought what on?’

‘Don’t stall. You know perfectly well what I was referring to. And you can also explain what happened to your wrists, for that matter.’

‘Hmm,’ Porthos made a noise of agreement, ‘I’ve been wanting to know what happened there as well.’ he said.

D’Artagnan was reluctant to tell his friends everything – it was he, after all, who had insisted on going back in even after Athos had warned him it was too dangerous, and he did not want to seem weak in front of them, as he was increasingly hoping to get a commission with the King’s Musketeers himself. He desperately needed to prove that he was capable of being one of them. He could not go back to Gascony, not now that his father was dead. Without the musketeers he had nobody.

But by this point, Aramis had finished binding his wrists and had also stood up. It was much harder to resist interrogation when there were three Musketeers as opposed to one, and when they were all stood in a line at the end of your bed with their arms crossed and identical penetrating expressions upon their faces, and so he gave in.   _I’ll just be selective with the truth,_ he thought.

‘Well, Vadim tied me up, and if I was going to help you to stop him, I had to get free, didn’t I?’ he said.

‘Don’t be stupid, D’Artagnan. You could have waited for one of us to come and cut the rope for you, could you not?’ retorted Porthos.

‘Well, yes, I could have….’ D’Artagnan trailed off, biting his lip.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a frustrated look at how their friend was being rather less than forthcoming.

‘Don’t be deliberately obstinate, D’Artagnan.’ said Athos, rolling his eyes. ‘Tell us everything that happened – we still have to report to Treville, don’t forget.’

Ah. Clearly, the game was up. He should have known Athos wouldn't let this go. 

‘Well, after I saw you three here, I went back – Vadim wasn’t very happy but he gave the impression that he bought my cover story, at least at first. It wasn’t until the next day that he gathered everyone around and announced that he knew there was a traitor in his midst. The next thing I knew, we’d left the rooms where he and his men had been holed up and I was in the tunnels with a sore head.’

‘That must have been shortly before we conducted the raid, then,’ said Aramis, ‘we must have missed you by minutes!’

‘What happened then?’ said Athos, eyes narrowed.

‘Well, when I came to, Vadim was arranging his little room of explosives and of course I realised that I’d been had. But that was why I couldn’t wait for you, see, because if I had I’d have been blown to pieces, andIneededtocomeandtellyoubutItriedtoputthemoutfirstIswearIdidand-‘ he screeched to a halt and the now identical looks of dismay on the face of each Musketeer in front of him, unaware that his words had run together into an almost intelligible jumble as he sped up to get the story over as fast as he could.

‘Say that again’ Porthos growled, ‘that last bit.’

‘Slower, this time,’ added Aramis, helpfully.

D’Artagnan swallowed convulsively, knowing without looking that he would get no help from Athos.

‘I couldn’t wait for you because he tied me to the barrels of gunpowder and I needed to get free and try to put the fuse out.’ he said carefully.

Aramis’ jaw had fallen open. _‘He tied you to the gunpowder?_ ’

‘That bastard!’ exploded Porthos, ‘He’s lucky he’s already dead, the swine!’

‘It’s okay, though’ said D’Artagnan, regaining some of his normal chipper composure, ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

Porthos’ eyes looked ready to pop out of his head. ‘That’s not the point, D’Artagnan!’

Whilst Aramis’ and Porthos’ faces were cycling between dismay and deep anger, D’Artagnan, and indeed the others, were surprised to find, when they turned to Athos, that he had gone white, his face not as unreadable as it usually was but instead written with some deep and unidentifiable emotion.

‘I’m so sorry, D’Artagnan,’ he forced out.

‘Don’t be,’ said D’Artagnan easily, ‘you have nothing to apologise for.’ And then, unknowingly echoing the words that Treville had said when they had found his blood on the floor, ‘I chose to take the risk, there’s nothing you could have done’.

‘We should have stopped you!’ said Athos fiercely.

D’Artagnan was starting to get riled up now. Neither of them noticed Porthos and Aramis sidling out of the room.

‘No, you shouldn’t have! Don’t you trust me? I did it, didn’t I? I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘There was too much at stake!’ said Athos angrily, ‘you’ve not been _trained_ as we have, you’ve not-‘

‘So that’s what this is about, is it?’ cried D’Artagnan, ‘I’m not a proper Musketeer, so you don’t trust me as you trust the others?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Athos, wincing, as he knew exactly where D’Artagnan had brought that accusation up from.

It had taken longer for Athos to accept the young Gascon than it had for Porthos and Aramis. Those two had had D’Artagnan’s help when Athos had been languishing in jail waiting for execution; they had already seen what the boy was capable of, his true character. Athos, whilst appreciating his help, had initially remembered only that it was essentially D’Artagnan who had put him prison in the first place, even whilst knowing that the boy had been deceived into making his accusations.

Athos deflated. ‘Perhaps, at first. Wait!’ he held up a hand as D’Artagnan opened his mouth to retaliate, ‘but those were my reasons for my initial objections to the whole operation, and not for my attitude now.’ he said more calmly.

D’Artagnan took note of the older man’s change in tone and tried to lift himself up on his elbows to get a better look at Athos’ face, dropping back down with a groan as his ribs made their objections known to such a movement. Athos helped to prop him up with some pillows, and then took a seat next to the bed where D’Artagnan could see him properly.

‘You remind me of my younger brother Thomas. I felt – I felt like I should have stopped you because I failed him, and now you are injured and I have failed you, too’ he said bitterly.

‘Athos.’ said D’Artagnan. ‘You did not fail me. Even had you tried to stop me I would have found a way to go back in. You did not fail me - and I am sure you did not fail Thomas, either’ he added softly.

He had expected, as was the norm, that Athos’ face would close off at this latter comment and that the walls he usually kept up around himself would rapidly be redrawn, but to his surprise, they did not.

‘Thankyou, brother,’ he said, with a half-smile. D’Artagnan looked taken aback at the endearment. ‘You do not just remind me of Thomas; you know,’ Athos said quietly, ‘and in any case, there is more to the word brother than you think.’

‘He’s right, you know’ Aramis and Porthos sauntered back into the room, looking for all the world like they had not just been eavesdropping on the whole conversation. D’Artagnan supressed a snigger.

‘Kings Commission or not, you are a Musketeer now. That means that you are our brother, and we care for our brothers. Contrary to what Aramis may say to you, the Musketeer motto is not, and never will be, ‘Every man for himself!’ said Porthos with a laugh.

‘Athos,’ said Aramis with a smirk on his face, ‘only ever gets riled up when his brothers are injured.’

Athos aimed a glare at the other man, but only received a bright smile in return, and then looking at D’Artagnan, noticed with a quirk of his lips that exact moment when D’Artagnan pieced together all the revelations of the afternoon.

Athos was angry not because D’Artagnan should never have gone on the operation, but because he got injured on that operation, because he felt like he should have done something to prevent such a result.

He did not need to prove that he was capable of being one of them, a member of their brotherhood, because he already _was_.

He was with his brothers.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm frantically re-watching all the episodes at the moment to commit them to my brain before they drop off of BBC iPlayer. And then I think I'll buy the series on Amazon. This came out of all my Musketeer related procrastination. And also because I'm really getting into this writing fanfic thing as opposed to reading them instead hahah. 
> 
> Criticism welcomed if constructive!


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